Even without him making too many appearances on the internet for a while now, it was already buzzing with news of him.
Under the
#ClubWorldCup
tag, fans began asking the same question over and over again:
"Wait, is Izan even playing in this thing? I canāt be the only one who hasnāt seen him right?"
"Why wasnāt he in any of the Arsenal arrival pics?"
"Is he injured or something?"
Clips of Arsenal stepping off the plane in Los Angeles filled timelines with members of the team stepping onto their transport one by one.
But there was no Izan.
Not in the airport videos, not in the team photos, and not even in the casual snaps of fans waiting by the terminal.
It didnāt make sense.
As someone who always fell in the spotlight, even if he didnāt do anything to attract it, it was weird not to see his face on any broadcast or promotional materials used for the tournament.
Threads piled up, conspiracy theories mixed with jokes.
Then, finally, a user dropped a link with the caption:
"Hereās why heās not in the U.S. yet."
It led to a Sky Sports post quoting Arteta from a press conference.
"Izan will not feature in the group-stage matches,"
the manager had said.
"Heās had a very long season, with him playing the most of all the players and weāve decided to manage his minutes carefully. Heāll join us after the second group game."
The replies came instantly.
"Fair, manās been carrying Arsenal since January."
"So heās skipping the warm-up levels to jump straight into the final boss fights, huh? I am pretty sure the Author just doesnāt what to write it."
"Just hope the team doesnāt need him before then."
"Low-key tactical... or just Arteta protecting his trump card or just full on favouritism. Choose what helps you."
....
Back in Hampstead, the world felt far away.
The usually quiet streets now buzzed with a rare morning energy as runners and cars alike moved to and fro.
Izan was barely awake, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting around Oliviaās shoulder.
Her hair was a mess, fanned across his chest, her breathing slow and steady.
From just outside the door came Komiās voice, firm and calm as always.
"Olivia, Izan, weāre heading out," she called.
"Thereās wheat porridge on the table. Donāt let it get cold."
Her heels clicked softly across the marbled floor, fading down the hall, followed by the distant creak of the front door and the muffled sound of a car engine.
Then, silence again.
Olivia moved slightly, pressing herself closer, like she was trying to melt into him.
Izan cracked an eye open, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"What do you wanna do today?" he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
She shook her head against his chest without saying a word.
"Nothing?" he asked again, amused.
Her only reply was a small, sleepy hum before she went still again.
Izan exhaled, as he reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
Just as he began to drift back toward sleep, his phone buzzed quietly against the nightstand.
He groaned, one eye opening, arm stretching blindly until his fingers found the device.
The screen glowed faintly in the room, a message from Albert Stuivenberg.
Albert:
"Morning, champ. Just got confirmation of the Club World Cup groups. Sharing the full list."
Izan rubbed a hand over his face before tapping the attachment. The list unfolded neatly across the screen:
Group A: Palmeiras, Porto, Al Ahly, Inter Miami
Group B: Paris Saint-Germain, AtlƩtico Madrid, Botafogo, Seattle Sounders
Group C: Bayern Munich, Benfica, Boca Juniors, Auckland City
Group D: Flamengo, Chelsea, EspƩrance de Tunis, Los Angeles FC
Group E: Inter Milan, Monterrey, River Plate, Urawa Red Diamonds
Group F: Borussia Dortmund, Fluminense, Ulsan HD, Mamelodi Sundowns
Group G: Manchester City, Juventus, Wydad AC, Al Ain
Group H: Real Madrid, Al-Hilal, Pachuca, Arsenal
He blinked a few times, then let out a low whistle.
"Real Madrid, huh?" he muttered, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk.
He hadnāt paid much attention to the groups but there was something about seeing that name beside Arsenalās, something that stirred the part of him that always loved a challenge, although most things in football would just be a formality for him at this point.
He scrolled down once more, then locked the phone and set it aside, his chuckle barely audible in the quiet room.
He turned his head toward Olivia, still sprawled lazily across the sheets, one leg tangled in the blanket, her hair a mess of soft waves across the pillow.
Leaning closer, he brushed his lips near her ear, whispering,
"Come on, sleepyhead. Letās go eat."
Her eyelids fluttered open just enough for one eye to peek out, unfocused and still heavy with sleep.
She stretched her arms out wordlessly, a silent request that needed no translation.
Izan smiled, shaking his head, but he slid an arm beneath her anyway.
As soon as he lifted her, she looped her arms around his neck, clinging on with the lazy grip of a koala refusing to let go of its branch.
"Youāre heavy," he murmured with a grin, adjusting his hold as he started down the stairs.
Olivia only hummed in response, burying her face into his neck warm, comfortable, and completely content as the two of them disappeared down the hallway, morning light spilling gently across the staircase.
...
A few days later, it was the opening night of the Club World Cup and it had the world glued to their screens at least from their houses because the seating and ticket problem was still as relevant.
Al Alhy versus Inter Miami, the kind of matchup that sounded like a video game fantasy a few years ago.
The cameras cut to Lionel Messi jogging across the pitch in the thin Florida humidity, captainās armband tight on his left arm, his expression calm but older, older in that way football fans never really admit until itās too late.
The commentators filled the silence between touches with half-nostalgic tones:
"Itās strange, isnāt it? Seeing Messi out here... not as invincible, but still untouchable."
Twitter (or what everyone still called Twitter, even if it wasnāt) was alive before halftime.
"Messi still got it, but man... heās got no help."
"Father Timeās real. Even for him."
"Bro imagine watching this and realising your goat eraās ending thank God we got Izan now fr."
"Weād be cooked without that boy."
The fan wars sparked as always, the Messi ultras telling the other fans not to compare Izan to their Idolās greatness
....
16th June ā one day before Arsenalās first game.
The heat in Cincinnati was the kind that pressed down like a hand, heavy and unforgiving as the players moved across it in sluggish lines, dark kits clinging to their backs, water bottles tucked under arms whenever they stopped to breathe.
From the sideline, Arteta stood with his hands on his hips, cap turned backwards, his eyes narrowed at the glare.
Sweat rolled down the side of his face, as he lifted a hand to shade his eyes, glancing up at the blazing sun.
"Dios mĆo," he muttered under his breath.
Then, louder, to no one in particular, "The heatās going to be a problem tomorrow."
His voice carried across the pitch, but most of the players were too tired to respond.
Arteta looked back at them, a team that had just conquered England, now facing a different kind of opponent: exhaustion, distance, and a heatwave that refused to let up.
He clapped his hands suddenly.
"Alright!" he called out, his voice cutting through the thick air. "One more lap!"
A chorus of groans rose instantly.
"Gaffer, come on!" came from somewhere near the back.
"Boss, mercy!" another added, barely audible through the panting and laughter that followed.
Someone else muttered something in Spanish that made a few heads who understood turn and chuckle under their breath.
It didnāt stop the ones who didnāt understand from asking though.
Arteta only smiled faintly, hands behind his back like a general too used to rebellion.
"Youāre going to thank me later," he said simply, tone half-warning, half-promise.
He watched as they pushed off again, slow at first, then faster as the competitive spark kicked in.
The sun dipped a little lower, but the heat stayed as the playersā shadows stretched long across the field, crisscrossing like lines in a painting.
By the time the whistle blew, the sound echoed hollow and sharp in the thick summer air.
Some players dropped where they stood.
Others shuffled toward the shade, heads tilted back, chests heaving.
Arteta glanced at them one more time before turning toward his assistants.
"Theyāll thank me tomorrow," he said again, quieter now, almost convincing himself.
...
[The Next day]
The TQL stadium shimmered under the floodlights, patches of shadow flickering where the glare met the lingering heat.
The pitch was a worn canvas of sweat and divots with players of both teams scattered across it like pieces of a puzzle that had just come apart.
And up from the gantry, the commentary came.
"Full time at the TQL Stadium..."